The poems that have to do with my young motherhood, which
was--
I don't know-- many years ago--
my kids were little back in the '70s and the late '60s
and so on.
We used to ride around in my clunker of a car, VW Bug,
I think, that couldn't go in reverse,
and we used to listen to The White Album, of course,
because it was the time to listen to The White Album.
So I have these poems that have to do
with this period I kind of named for those songs in The White
Album.
And I either reference The White Album song,
or I call the poem a title that will be familiar to most
of you, except the very young.
And I don't think any of those are here.
Perhaps they are.
I don't know.
[INAUDIBLE]
Yes, probably, there are.
[INAUDIBLE]
Oh my god, that's right.
OK, when your grandfather used to listen to The White Album--
jeez.
It's sad.
This one is called "While My Guitar," and I'm
going to have a glass of water, a drink
of water, not a whole glass.
OK.
And you know that, of course, "While My Guitar."
"My cousin likes to tell the story of how,
when she used to visit me in Pound Ridge, New York,
my kids were always running around naked while I
read French poetry.
We lived in a converted apple mill
and had a big yard, a wide flagstone terrace littered
with toys, and the kids preferred to be naked,
I believed.
Or else I was too absorbed in French poetry
to clothe them, which must have been my cousin's point.
Who knows what I was reading?
Memory, memory, what do you want of me?
Autumn, make the thrush fly through colorless air.
Oh Venus, oh goddess, I long for the days of antique youth.
Meanwhile, the children ran around naked, shrieking and
laughing in the garden hose wild spray or digging in the dirt
with my heirloom silver spoons, and my littlest daughter
learned to arc her pee like a boy, standing up,
which thrilled us.
Once, a friend, a poet cataloged the items
she found on my stairway-- clumps of hair, orange peels,
trail of paper clips.
When I wore a black cape to a school conference,
my son begged me never to do that again.
Do what, I said.
You look like a witch, he said.
Memory, memory, what do you want of me?
This longing, a dazzled antique moon,
colorless the air of the future.
Who were you on the bright flagstone, scooping up
dolls and cars?
Write to me."